Red Flags (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

After jokes about the offer to pose naked—I turned the request down—Holly and I worked on the press inquiries that had come in. I called a journalist for the
New York Times
wanting a comment from me for a longer, serious report on gender in modern sports.

Holly fielded a national network morning show. “They know you'll be on the local show tomorrow, and they want to add a five-minute call to the national program. I pressed them on the topic, and they said they want to talk about an up-and-comer in racing, to find out what the road to get there was like for you. The good and the bad.”

“They'll bring up the tabloids and the accusations.”

“But probably not to trap you. They said they wanted to explore what you had to go through. I watch them, and the hosts aren't those people. I think you'll be all right.”

As we strolled down the Venice boardwalk, watching street artists work with spray paint and kitchen utensils, I focused on the windfall of national exposure I was getting. And tried to ignore the negative spin that had gotten me there. My ringing phone dredged up different anxieties. I checked the display and let Nikki's call go to voicemail.
Time to practice your new approach to business.

“Hi, Kate!” Nikki sounded animated, but I was coming to recognize the tenacity under her fluff. “Have you figured out who killed poor Billy yet? It's almost been a week now, so I thought you might have. It'd be really great if you could get that worked out before the race weekend, you know? Thanks, sweetums. Oh, and the network left me a DVD of the footage they took during Media Day. I think you wanted it? I'm not sure why. It's not very good television yet, without editing. But it's here. Let me know. Okay, bye!”

Holly turned to me. “That's amazing.”

“It was over the top, even for her. What the hell? ‘It's been a week, are you done?' Figuring out who killed someone isn't like ordering a pizza…no, she probably wouldn't order pizza. It's not like ordering caviar to arrive on time.”

“Can you get caviar delivered here? Probably,” Holly decided.

I jabbed at the phone to delete the voicemail and noticed another one. This time it was Coleman's voice. “Please be ready to report to me on the status of your investigation into Billy's death tomorrow, after our meeting. No written documentation required, merely a summary of what you've uncovered and who you suspect.” He disconnected abruptly.

Holly took my cell phone out of my numb hand and deleted the message. She patted my arm. “This is where you weren't going to get wound up. Business, remember?”

I sucked in a deep breath, tasting ocean air. I exhaled. Did that three more times. “You're right.” I did an internal survey and discovered I wasn't angry. I was annoyed, but I wouldn't march to their orders.

I smiled at Holly. “All good, thanks. Maintaining my calm.”

“Great.” She took my arm and got me moving again. “Now tell me about the FBI agent and the movie star. Don't leave anything out.”

I thought about Holly's amusement later that evening while waiting on the Beverly Hills Hotel's red carpet again, this time for Lucas to pick me up. I had no idea what kind of vehicle to expect, though I half expected a limousine, for privacy. I was completely unprepared for him to drive up in a black Porsche 918 Spyder, one of the fastest, and certainly most expensive, machines Porsche built. A gorgeous, nearly 900-horsepower, hybrid sportscar.

Lucas grinned at me as I got in. “You look great. You're sure casual is okay? You wouldn't prefer dressing up for a fancy meal?” He'd texted me an hour earlier to suggest informal dining.

“My natural state is jeans and tee-shirts, so this is perfect.”

“Your natural state suits you.” He nodded at the valet nearest his door and pulled away, but he stopped partway down the drive and leaned over to kiss me twice, lingeringly. “Hi, Kate. Thanks for coming out with me.”

He scrambled my wits. “Hm, yeah. Thanks.”

He chuckled and pulled away. My brain caught up as we waited for the light at Sunset Boulevard and Rodeo, outside the hotel exit. “You stopped in the middle of the drive so no one would see us. But don't you worry about being recognized in this car? They're rare, and aren't people more likely to see you with no lid?” I pointed to the sky through the open top.

He tapped the baseball hat he wore, the Los Angeles Kings this time. “A hat helps. But it's a risk. Most people, even if they recognize me, will be cool. Press might not be. But they're not everywhere, and I'm not always in a mood to slink around trying to avoid them. Hiding from the world is no way to live.”

“I understand that. Besides, it's a great car.”

Lucas reached over to take my hand. “Is it awful for me to admit I wanted to show off a little? Not my driving prowess, not with you in the car. And not money either, but my love of fine automotive machinery.”

“Not awful.”

“I'm also not showing off because I think I'm better than you. I've done that before.” He shook his head. “This is the embarrassing kind of showing off, just a boy wanting to show off for a girl.”

The moment felt unreal, like I was in a movie. Still, I smiled and squeezed his hand. “Then it's sweet.”

“Good. It's rare I have someone in the car who really appreciates it.”

We made small talk for the few minutes it took to reach the restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. Again, I was surprised. Lucas drove a car that cost nearly a million dollars, but ate at neighborhood joints offering one-dollar taco Tuesdays. I couldn't tell if the contrast was meant to display balance or confuse me. Maybe both.

For the next two and a half hours, we ate excellent enchiladas as we chatted about how we got into our respective careers. When we weren't surrounded by evidence, it was easy to forget his success and fame, to think of him as a regular guy. Walking back outside and admiring how his expensive car gleamed under the streetlights brought it all back.

Lucas dangled his keys in my face. “Want to drive? I'd love to see how a pro handles it.”

“You sure?” He nodded, and I felt both excitement and relief. Excitement at getting my hands on the car. Relief because I'd watched Lucas toss back three beers during our meal. A car with this kind of power and complexity deserved a driver's undivided focus.

Not to mention I rarely enjoyed being driven by other people, usually due to ego—and I didn't mean mine. Some of the most terrifying experiences I'd had in a car were being the passenger of a man trying to impress me with his driving skills. None of them, including many dates, ever did. Fortunately, Lucas hadn't felt compelled to show off during the drive to the restaurant—nor had Ryan in his Corvette. But I was always happier in the driver's seat.

“Where to?” I settled behind the wheel, admiring the view.

“A cupcake for dessert?” At my nod, he pointed down the street. “Thataway.”

The Porsche handled like a dream. I could tell it had bottled up temper to spare, but it was fluid and controlled even at slow speeds. Five minutes went by before I realized I'd stopped paying attention to Lucas. I turned to him. “Sorry.”

“It's educational watching you. Turn here. It's only two blocks down.” He must have read the disappointment on my face, because he laughed. “Don't worry. I'll let you drive it afterward also.”

I made the turn off of Wilshire Boulevard and spied the giant, neon cupcake sign ahead. I scanned for parking as we approached.

Suddenly Lucas freaked out. “Don't stop! Keep going!”

“What's wrong?”

“Don't stop. Go, go, go!”

Confused, I pressed on the throttle, sending a roar of noise out of the exhaust pipes. Lucas shrank down in his seat as we zipped past the cupcake shop and two dozen parked cars. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw people scrambling into vehicles and pulling out to follow us.

Lucas turned a frustrated face to mine. “That's the paparazzi. Unless you want to be on the cover of every tabloid tomorrow, drive.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

“So much for the press not being everywhere.” I drove Lucas' Porsche 918 through the Beverly Hills streets faster than the allowed speed.

Lucas kept watching the side mirror. “They're never there. Maybe Brad has one of the kids out. God knows with all those children, it must be someone's birthday.”

I made a last-minute decision to turn left through a yellow-turning-red light.
Who the hell is Brad? Brad?!
I checked the rearview mirror again. “How are they still behind us?”

“They run lights and break every other traffic law. More than we do.”

“Shit.” At this point, we were headed west on Santa Monica Boulevard again, the same road we'd traveled on our way to dinner. “Why don't we stop and let them get the shots?”

Lucas shook his head before I finished the sentence. “Give an inch, they'll take a mile.”

“I can't believe—”

“I've been through this, you haven't. If we stop and pose, they'll have us on the way to Vegas for a wedding with a child due next month.” He fished around behind the driver's seat and came up with another baseball hat, which he slapped onto my head.

“That sounds extreme.” I looked in the mirror. L.A. Dodgers.

He grabbed my arm. Hard. “We're not stopping. Please, drive.”

I could tell he wouldn't hear any arguments, based on his tone and the tightness of his grip. I nodded at him, judged the traffic around us, and nipped around a small white delivery truck, darting in front of it to make a right turn.

“How do we lose them?” I drove down a residential street full of apartment buildings, scanning incessantly for pedestrians. “Don't they already know it's you in this car?”

“Probably. But they don't know it's you with me. Or you behind the wheel.”

“You'd rather have stories about fleeing from them than on a date with me?” I heard what came out of my mouth. “I didn't mean like that. Asking a serious question.”

“I'm not ashamed about being on a date with you, Kate. It's that they have my public life. I don't want them to have my personal life also.”

I stopped at a red light and glanced in the mirror to see two camera lenses pointed at us, clearly visible in the streetlights at the intersection. I saw the driver's door open and someone start to step out.

We were the first car in line. The traffic lights turned yellow for cross traffic. The photographer behind us stood up, camera to his face. I wiggled my left foot onto the brake pedal and set my right on the throttle. Fed on a little gas. The Porsche inched forward.

No cross traffic coming. Yellow light for them. Photographer at his own front fender.
I can't believe he's leaving his car running. Didn't he look at the light? I guess Lucas is right, they don't care.

I inched us forward more. Photographer at our back bumper. Cross-traffic light is yellow—now red. No one coming. Now! I floored the car and raced through the intersection, leaving the photographer with a shriek of engine noise and no shot. I hoped.

“Waaaaaa-hoooooooo!” Lucas yelled.

I reined the car in from the sixty miles per hour it had reached in three seconds.

Lucas glanced behind us again. “I wish that would stop them for good. But well done.”

“Now what? Back to my hotel?”

“We don't want to lead them there either. We want to lose them. Turn left here.”

Once again, I nipped through a yellow light, turning onto Wilshire.

“Onto the 405 North,” he instructed.

I spied familiar cars only a block behind us. They almost caused two accidents catching up and swerving back and forth across lanes, trying to get beside us. I got lucky at a red light and managed to stay alongside other traffic.

One block to the freeway entrance. The light changed to green. “Go!” Lucas cried.

I turned onto the onramp and stopped at another light, this one regulating flow onto the freeway. Ten o'clock on a Monday night, and the freeway was still full. Five lanes of traffic, moving slowly. It was hard to imagine this many people, even with the evidence all around me.

Finally, we merged into traffic. “Stay in the right lanes,” Lucas told me. He continued to fidget, looking in the mirrors, looking behind us, looking ahead.

“What now?” I asked again.

“Skirball exit. A couple miles. When we get off, make one left turn, then stay right.”

Five minutes later, I followed his instructions and powered up the hill from the exit, staying right at a split and merging with another road. I'd thought it was dark down on Wilshire, but up here in the hills, there were even fewer lights.

I made a sweeping right turn, and Lucas settled back in his seat, suddenly calm. “I think I still see two or three of them.”

I glanced at him. “That relaxes you?”

He grinned and tugged his hat down firmly on his head. “This is Mulholland Drive, Kate. You and this car? No way they can keep up. We'll lose them in a couple of minutes.”

The road dropped down and made a quick turn to the left. I responded automatically while I dealt with the surprise. “This was your plan? I break the law to outrun them?”

“They don't stand a chance.”

The daredevil part of me wanted to see how the car would perform. The rational part of my brain shouted warnings about police and tickets and other people and injuries and not knowing the road. Yet another part of me was angry with Lucas.
Did he set me up? Why does it matter? You know you're itching to turn it loose. But you can
not
get a speeding ticket. You can
not
injure anyone—especially not yourself. Especially not Mr. Sexiest Man Alive next to you.

I also couldn't be photographed as the driver of Lucas Tolani's car, having already committed a dozen moving violations.

Lucas got twitchy again as headlights flashed behind us. “Come on, Kate!”

I cycled through my emotions again: excited, worried, cautious, annoyed, angry. I didn't like Lucas in that second, for pressuring me into this. For getting me into this. For being someone the paparazzi would break laws to follow.
Son of a bitch!

“Go!” Lucas urged.

I went, the car's V8 engine screaming behind our heads.

The road rose and fell, twisted right and bent left, riding along the top of a ridge. Sometimes the land dropped away to the north and the Valley, sometimes it disappeared to Beverly Hills and L.A. to the right. I registered all that after the fact. In the few minutes of the drive, I was entirely focused on the road and the car. Braking and feeding the throttle on or off through turns, feeling the traction control maintain the tires' grip with the pavement. Steering as precisely as possible, and straining my eyes for lights in either direction ahead.

Look ahead, left turn coming. Visibility: enough. No one oncoming. Throttle on. Use all of the road, apex the corner. Rising road, right turn next. Hold on throttle. Hold on throttle. Brake! Careful in this lane. Careful on the brake. Ready to brake harder if a car appears.
I really hope no one is riding a bicycle on this road tonight.

Through the turn. Car sticking to the ground like glue. Throttle, lunging forward to the next turn. Road dipping down again, off camber left turn, careful with speed. Touch the brakes, easy on the gas. Through the turn. Road still clear ahead. Go!

One time, I powered through a blind, right-hand turn and came upon a car in front of us in the lane. But the 200-yard view was clear, and before Lucas could even gasp, I'd swung into the oncoming lane and passed the slower vehicle. Only after we were around the next bend did it register the car had
not
been a police officer.

And once I almost kissed a guardrail around a blind left-hand turn whose radius began wide and sweeping, but tightened dramatically halfway through. Traction control kept the rear tires from losing grip, but we used all of the road. Next to a black void.

We passed oncoming cars about four times, quickly. I didn't look at how fast we were going, but it felt insane. Gloriously fun in the moment, but insane on a dark road I didn't know.

After what felt like half an hour, but was probably only four or five minutes, I let up. I didn't see headlights behind us—hadn't for a dozen turns. “I think we lost them.”

My heartrate was elevated to a typical race level, and I felt a light sweat all over my body. I glanced at Lucas and laughed at his big eyes and wide smile.

“Holy shit,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “That was fucking amazing!
You
are unbelievable,” he shouted.

That's when I remembered I'd heard him whooping and egging me on throughout our wild ride. “You weren't scared?”

“Hell, no. That was fucking amazing!”

You said that already.
“How do we get off this road so they can't catch up?”

“Coming up, Coldwater. Take it to the right. Drops right down by your hotel.”

“Perfect.”

“That—when you—guardrail to the side…better than any roller coaster.”

I saw Coldwater Canyon Drive, and turned right, immediately heading downhill. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, doubts and second-thoughts crowded in. I wasn't sure I was happy he hadn't been scared. The drive had been dangerous, and looking back on it scared me some. He'd pushed me into it, and he'd loved it. Like an amusement park ride.

As I drove sedately down Coldwater Canyon, Lucas leaned over. “You are amazing, Kate. I can't believe you. So damn sexy and so powerful.” He nibbled at my neck.

Despite the tingling I felt, I shoved him back. “Not while I'm driving.”

“But when you stop?” I glanced at him to find he'd turned on the smoldering look to accompany his teasing.

“I…uh.” My brain went blank.
Lucas Tolani! Gorgeous man hot for me. What the hell do I do?

Lucas started to stroke my forearm, and I felt myself weakening. Then I thought about what I'd just done.
You already halfway regret one decision tonight, don't go two for two.

I snapped my eyes back to the road and pulled my arm away. “Not when we stop.”

“Are you sure?” Same smooth voice. I didn't dare look at his face.

“I'm tempted. But I don't do this.”
There's always a first time.
I frowned. “It wouldn't be about the real you, it'd be about your fame. That's not fair to either of us.”

“I'm not sure I need you to be fair, Kate.”

“Now you sound like a bad movie.”

He sat back. “Ouch.” He laughed. “Can't blame me for trying, right?”

I shrugged. “So long as you don't blame me for saying no.”

“Trust me, Kate. It only makes you more intriguing.”